WHISPERS OF THE RED DRESS 119

I spent the next three hours pacing the floor of my mother's former bedroom.

The velvet curtains were drawn tight against the howling wind outside. The fire burned low, casting orange embers across the Persian rug.

Every instinct in my brain screamed at me to take the private jet. To run to Italy or France, buy a tiny bookstore on a cobblestone street, and forget that Stefano Rossi ever walked into St. Bridget's parish hall.

But then I looked at the sketch on the desk.

I looked at the drawing of my mother—the woman who had sacrificed everything to give me a normal, safe childhood. She had spent thirty years hiding in small towns, working double shifts at diners, making sure I never knew the darkness she had escaped.

If I ran now, my mother's sacrifice would mean nothing. Salvatore Rossi would hunt me down eventually, or he would destroy Stefano for protecting me.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Stefano stepped inside. He had removed his jacket and holster, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms crossed with faint, faded scars.

He carried a tray with two glasses of dark amber bourbon and two fresh slices of my birthday cake.

"I thought you might be hungry," he said, setting the tray on the coffee table near the hearth.

I looked at the cake, then looked at him. "You really brought the cake from the parish hall?"

"It was your birthday," he said simply, sitting on the leather sofa. "And I don't like wasting good chocolate."

I sat on the opposite end of the sofa, picking up one of the glasses. The liquor burned down my throat, warming my chilled bones.

"I'm staying," I said quietly.

Stefano froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with intense focus. "Are you sure, Elena?"

"I'm not doing it for the syndicate," I said, my voice steadying with a newfound strength I didn't know I possessed. "I'm doing it for my mother. And... I'm doing it because you ate grocery-store cake with me on my thirty-seventh birthday."

Stefano set his glass down. He moved closer to me, his presence overwhelming the space between us.

"You are playing with fire, Elena," he whispered, his eyes dark and heavy with unspoken emotion. "If you stay, there is no going back. The press, the police, the rival families... they will all know your name."

"Let them know," I replied, leaning in slightly. "My mother wore red when she was ready for a fight. I think it's time I learned why."

Stefano reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, pulling me gently toward him. He didn't kiss me—not yet—but his forehead rested against mine, our breaths mingling in the warm air of the room.